


dancing like dutchmen

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Almost Kiss, Alternate Universe - Space, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, they're basically bounty hunters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22794139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: After a successful hunt, Newt and Hermann enjoy a little something to celebrate.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler & Hermann Gottlieb, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Kudos: 17





	dancing like dutchmen

The press of his thumb on the pad turns it green, and then, after a moment, yields a click, and the two of them drag themselves into the cockpit; the controls laid out in front of them, and through the windows on the nose, the murky forest unfolds before them.

Hermann lets himself drop into his seat, and Newt, after a few moments of puttering around for the first-aid kit, adjusts his chair a bit so that it’s closer to Hermann’s, and then sits down himself.

“Good shot,” he murmurs to his companion as he digs through the medical-blue box, pulling out some regen-patches and a bottle of disinfectant. The suture needle glints for a moment in the dull light, and he’s glad they don’t have to use it this time. “Stupid-ass decision, though. You could’ve been clipped.”

Hermann lets out a noncommittal grunt. “Better I be clipped than you get your heart stopped,” he says, and somehow, manages to make it sound like a chore, like Newt’s an idiot, though they’ve been at this together for ten years. He absent-mindedly drums his fingers on his cane, propped against the console before him.

Newt rolls his eyes. “Dude,” he says, peeling the paper off of one of the patches and hitching his leg over the arm of his chair to apply it to the cut without bending over, “if you’re clipped, then I gotta slow down and grab you, and then we wind up losing the target.”

The other shrugs. “You could always leave me,” he says, “go after the target on your own; I can fend for myself.”

_ Better we lose the target than I lose you _ is what he doesn’t say, mostly because it’s way too fucking  _ sentimental _ for their line of work, and partially because he doesn’t want to deal with Hermann’s reaction to it right now.

Instead, he peels the paper off another regen-patch and reaches out to press his fingers to Hermann’s jaw and tilt his head so he can apply it carefully to the cut just over his brow-bone; the blood having dripped down over his eyelid and down his cheek, and on instinct, Newt licks a finger and rubs at it.

The action makes Hermann wrinkle his nose in distaste, throws the premature lines on his face into sharp highlight. “That’s disgusting and unhygienic,” he complains, batting Newt’s hand away.

Newt snorts. “Shut up, you bastard,” he says, “it’s that or I can go at it with the wipes, and I  _ know _ you hate those.”

Hermann grimaces but doesn’t contradict him. In an attempt to draw his attention away, Newt says, “We did good, man, let’s celebrate—I got a little something special last time we stopped at the base—”

“If it’s Aidornian junk food, I’m going to strangle you,” Hermann mutters, and Newt ignores him, leaning forward to dig his fingers into the release hatch of one of the panels below the main console.

It pops open with a quiet hiss, revealing mismatched metal held together by soldering, welding, and screws—the Kaiju, their ship, is technically a scrap-ship, made of the grain-transport Silver Petrel and the fighter Osprey that Newt found in the junkyards ages ago, and he pulled out the bits he liked to make a Frankenship of their own (Hermann says calling her a Frankenship is inflating Newt’s ego, but whatevs)—, and, tucked behind a few books, cushioned by the blanket wrapped around it, is a single bottle.

Newt snatches it, the blanket unspooling over the floor, and he ignores it. “ _ This _ ,” he says, presenting the bottle to Hermann, “is genuine, 100% Terran vodka—none of that replicator shit. I won it from the Kaidanovskys in a game of Fool’s Dice.”

Hermann quirks a brow at him. “I’m surprised they were willing to part with it,” he says, “non-replicator alcohol is hard to come by this far out in the Rings.”

Newt shrugs. “To be fair, I was betting the two cases of Stygian iron we got in that job a while back,” he says, and Hermann gives an undignified squawk.

“ _ Newton! _ ”

“Shut it, man, I won,” Newt snaps, but not too bitingly; he understands where Hermann’s coming from. “Anyway, d’you want any, or should I just drink it all on my own—?”

“Hand it here,” Hermann says, cutting him off, and Newt gives a small laugh at that; passes the other the bottle, watches as he grips slim fingers around the lid and twists, shap and deft, taking the cap off in a single, sure motion.

He inspects it for a moment, as if watching for something, and then raises it to his lips, taking a small sip, throat bobbing as the liquid goes down. Newt flicks his gaze away the instant he realises he’s been looking.

Hermann pulls the bottle away from his mouth and gives a soft, “ _ Ah _ ” of surprise, and then offers it to Newt.

“Satisfied it’s the real thing?” Newt asks drily, and plucks the bottle from the other’s hand, bringing it to his own mouth, and doesn’t think overmuch about the fact that, just moments before, the cold transparisteel was pressed against Hermann’s thin, pale lips.

The drink burns down his throat, leaving a bitter, dry taste on his tongue, and he resists the urge to cough reflexively; doing so too soon will just bring it back up, and that’s  _ really _ not what he wants to deal with just now.

They pass the bottle back and forth a few more times, lapsing into silence, before Hermann digs the lid out from wherever he’s squirrelled it away and sticks it back on, setting it on the floor; rotates his chair so it faces Newt’s better.

He must be bored; he never does this unless he’s bored, and Newt would know; they’ve been doing this together for ten years, the two of them, scrappy, mouthy bastards who by all rights are the antithesis of what hunters are.

They work well together, though, and Newt’s glad for that; he likes working with Hermann, and it’s good to be able to pass that off as just appreciation for how much easier it is to do the job with each other than anyone else.

Absent-mindedly, he rubs the knuckles of his left hand, feeling the smooth of scars there from their first hunt; of Hermann getting to him just in the knick of time so all he’s got is some scars instead of missing fingers.

“We ought to charge more,” he muses aloud, and rolls his head, laid back against the headrest of his chair, so that he can better look at Hermann. 

“We ought to,” Hermann agrees. “An, ah, extra for hunts like this one, maybe—call it a maintinence fee or something; the Kaiju’s going to need a good cleaning after we get out of here, and that doesn’t come cheaply.”

“Mmyeah,” Newt murmurs. “And if we have any extra left, that’s our secret.”

He thinks about Hermann’s silent, unspoken love for the finer things in life; the soft sheets on his bed, worn by age; the imitaion-wood of his cane, the varnish worn down by use so that the metal beneath peeks through, especially at the head. 

If they had just a little extra, Newt would be able to put it aside; save it up and get a  _ real _ wood cane for Hermann, and replace his sheets with a new set. Maybe take Hermann out to dinner at that place he like, ground-side, that serves the pirozhki Newt knows is his secret weakness. It’s not much, really, but the thought of it warms his stomach, not uncomfortably.

He realises he’s been spacing out, and he snaps back to reality with a blink; tries to refocus.

Hermann’s shifted a bit, and their chairs are closer than he remembers them being before, and one of Hermann’s hands is on the arm of his.

He looks up; meets Hermann’s gaze, and watches it flick down and back up again; breath stuttering for a moment when he realises Hermann was looking at his mouth.

“Newton,” Hermann says, ever-so-softly, dark eyes gentle, and he leans over, hand shifting from the arm of Newt’s chair to his thigh, and his other hand reaches out—

A loud  _ crash _ sends them scrambling apart, and in the rush, Newt manages to knock over the bottle, and Hermann says something that sounds distinctly like an expletive, though Newt’s not sure if it’s at him or the bird-thing that crashed into their window, and snatches the bottle up before it can pour all over the floor.

“I’ll, uh, go get a rag and mop that up,” Newt says, after a moment, not meeting Hermann’s gaze, and gets up out of his seat.

“Mmm,” Hermann says, and for a moment, is sounds like he wants to say something else, but he just caps the bottle with a  _ click _ and wraps it in the blanket, sticking it back where it came from, leaving Newt to slink into the kitchenette and find a rag.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
